The Music of Emotion
by niccoyne12
Summary: A fic in which Sherlock is faced with an emotional problem and John tries to fix his own. Rated for later chapters. Sherlock/John. WIP, slight OOC. NO BETA.
1. A New Song

**_This is a WIP that I've been thinking about writing for a while now. I don't know exactly what route this is going to take, but I can promise you that all roads lead to Johnlock. There was an issue with the GPS so how we get there could be... Interesting. I have the first 3 chapters of this completed. I don't forsee any of the chapters getting to be over 1,000 words long and I reckon there will be no more than 10 chapters and even that's being generous. It's a short fic in theory, but like I said we'll see!_**

**_This is entirely un-beta'd but if anyone would like to offer their services I'd love the help! My writing programme has a particular issue with spell and grammar-checking so any help would be most appreciated._**

**_John/Molly, John/Sherlock, some OOC_**

**_WARNINGS: M/M relationship which will (eventually) be very physical and very descriptive_**

**_Unfortunately, I own none of this except the plot._**

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"Sherlock? Are you there?" John walked into the flat, pulling his over-night bag behind him. He was entirely unsurprised to see that Sherlock was in the exact same position as he had been when John left; sprawled across the sofa. John could tell he had moved though, the violin was sitting beside him and it had been beside the window when John had exited the flat.

"Did you make the tea?"

"What? Sherlock, you really have to start paying attention when I'm talking to you. I told you I was leaving on Friday, I've been gone two days!" John exclaimed, leaving his bag by the door and running his hand through his hair.

Sherlock observes John, taking in the bag by the door, the coffee stain on his right sleeve which was barely concealed by his jacket, the creases on the side of his face, the two day old trousers and the slight bags under his eyes.

"You were with Molly then?" the tone of distaste was barely concealed. This surprised John, he knew Sherlock wasn't happy about the fact that John insisted on spending at least one night a week with Molly, regardless of what case was on, but he didn't think Sherlock actually disliked her. He decided it was better not to push the subject though, they might start talking about emotions and that was never a good topic of conversation when Sherlock was involved.  
"Yes, Sherlock! I told you weeks ago, it was our first anni- oh, never mind." John made his way into the kitchen which was, mercifully, still the way he had left it. God bless Mrs. Hudson. As John fixed himself and Sherlock a cup of tea, he heard the latter rise of the sofa and move to the window, within seconds the sound of the violin filled the flat. As John added two sugars to his tea and began pouring milk into both cups, he realized that the song Sherlock was playing was entirely unfamiliar to him.

"Been composing then?" He asked as he took a seat in his favorite armchair.

"Yes, helps me think." Predictable as always. Sherlock continued playing, the song was slow and slightly mournful, but there was something about the way it was constructed that gave it a happy feeling, which subdued the pain that seemed to be lurking underneath. From experience John knew that when Sherlock composed he put a lot of his emotions into it, for all that he claimed he had none. When 'The Woman' had left the songs had been painful but somewhat relaxed, they were playing out the emotions and letting them go at the same time. This was different, the pain in the new song continued, always parallell to the happiness and never ceasing.

"Sounds interesting"

"What?" the music stopped abruptly, but Sherlock didn't turn around.

"The song, it's interesting"

"Why? I've written hundreds of songs." Modest as always.

"It's different. Usually your songs aren't so.." John paused, but he couldn't think of another word for it, "emotional." Sherlock turned to the sheets of music on the stand but seemed to be concentrating on something other than the notes on the pages in front of him.

"It's an emotional problem" his brow crinkled slightly, "I hate emotional problems" he almost whispered the last part. John was used to Sherlock struggling with emotion but after the weekend he'd had with Molly, he couldn't exactly say he was any good with emotions either.

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**A/N; Be sure to let me know what you think, I thrive off reviews, even if they are flames! I'm going to try and keep updates regular but I have exams for the next few weeks so I don't know if I'll be able... Persuade me! ;) R/R guys, it honestly means a lot!**


	2. Not So Good

_**Here's chapter 2 guys, I hope you enjoy it! I promise there's a reason for all this. John's quite OOC in this chapter, but he's going to redeem himself soon. I hope... I don't really know to be honest, he's pretty much writing himself and I have no idea where he's going right now. He has some choices to make...**_

John/Molly, John/Sherlock, some OOC

_**WARNINGS: M/M relationship which will (eventually) be very physical and very descriptive.**_

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"_John was used to Sherlock struggling with emotion but after the weekend he'd had with Molly, he couldn't exactly say he was any good with emotions either. . . ."_

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**** 36 hours before ****

"More wine?"

"Yes, please." John smiled as he poured another drink for Molly. They were in the restaurant of the hotel John had taken her to for the weekend. It was a nice place, modestly priced but the food was incredible and the room was very comfortable. Molly giggled and took a sip from her glass, her lips lingering on the rim which was stained with her pale lipstick, John smiled even wider at the sound. He loved the sound of her laugh, he especially loved the way her eyes crinkled as she looked at him, the same was Sherlock's did. Sherlock... No. He wasn't going to think about his flatmate this weekend. His insane, highly strung, sociopathic, brilliant, talented, sexy.. Wait, did he just say 'sexy' in relation to Sherlock? Perhaps he should cut down on the wine, they were on their third bottle after all.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Molly was studying him over the top of her glass. Not in the calculated 'I can tell you everything about yourself' way that Sherlock did, but curiously. She wanted to know what John was thinking and genuinely couldn't tell. It was one of the reasons John enjoyed her company so much, he didn't feel the need to be on guard constantly, trying to hide what he was feeling or avoiding uncomfortable conversation. He also enjoyed the fact that, unlike with Sherlock, he could get away with telling a little white lie every so often, like now.

"They're not worth that much" he replied, grasping frantically at any thought that wasn't somehow connected to the man back in London, "just thinking about how amazing you look in that dress." Nice save.

The dress was lovely though, it was a simple dark blue halter-neck that showed just the right amount of cleavage. It also had the added bonus of a slit up the left side, which showed an impressive amount of Molly's thigh. John still wasn't sure how they'd ended up together, but he was glad they had. She was incredible company and was able to talk about medical issues in a way that Sherlock couldn't: she was interested in the morality of new sciences, not just their effectiveness like Sherlock was.

Molly laughed and fiddled with her glass, swirling the wine.

"Okay" she said, putting it on the table and running her fingers along the stem, in what could be conceived as a rather sexual way, "I don't know if it's the wine that's making me brave or the food, or the fact that you've managed to make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world tonight" John laughed, he liked knowing that he could make someone feel happy with themselves, like when he complimented Sherlock and saw the mans eyes -. He stopped that train of thought as he realized Molly was still talking, "I'm in love with you John."  
Everything in John's mind stopped. He knew what he should say, he was well aware of the protocol of this situation. They'd been dating for a year now, that's the whole reason they were in this hotel to begin with, but neither of them had actually said they loved each other, at least not out loud. It wasn't exactly something John had thought about either, it wasn't that he didn't care about Molly because he did. She was a distraction from all the craziness at home, she was intelligent enough for a good conversation but not so brilliant as to make him feel inadequet, she was beautiful and sexy and she was incredible in bed, but love? John hadn't seriously considered it. It wasn't as if he had time, what with Sherlock dragging him all over London chasing down murderers, human traffickers, drug gangs and the ocassional thief. He'd neglected to even mention moving in with Molly because as much as he loved her company, he knew that being around Sherlock and living that unpredictable life was what he needed and craved. The adrenaline kept him sane, helped stop the nightmares and gave him something to work towards, to focus on. It was also their main source of income, since the blog had gotten so popular they'd been turning down more cases than they'd been taking on. More than once Sherlock would have three or four cases on at the same time. That was what John lived for. That and his shifts at the medical clinic.

This entire thought process took no more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for Molly to notice his hesitation.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. John it's not -"  
"It's ok, Molly. You just caught me off guard." That was an understatement, a rather large understatement.  
"No it's not. I just figured that since we've been seeing each other for so long it was time I told you how I felt. It's alright if you don't feel the same, I mean you have your work and everything, I just... I'm sorry." She picked her napkin off her lap and left it sitting on the table as she walked away. John didn't go after her. Years later he would ask himself why he didn't chase her, but instead he downed the rest of his wine and went to the hotels bar.

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**A/N: As always I hope you enjoyed this. I apologize again for any mistakes I've made. Please point them out to me and I will do my best to fix them! Please R&R, it makes it so much more fun to write when I know I have an audience who's enjoying it. **


	3. Out Of Character

_**Aaaaand here's chapter 3. This is the chapter that I have the most problems with so far, although chapter 5 is getting on my nerves right now too. I apologize for the shortness of this, but the fic isn't going to be very long overall. I hope you enjoy!**_

John/Molly, John/Sherlock, some OOC

_**WARNINGS: M/M relationship which will (eventually) be very physical and very descriptive.**_

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-"_John was used to Sherlock struggling with emotion but after the weekend he'd had with Molly, he couldn't exactly say he was any good with emotions either. . . ."_

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John was pulled from his memories by a loud sigh from Sherlock, really he had to stop spacing out,

"Maybe I can help?" he ventured, not really expecting for his help to be sought.

"Perhaps" Sherlock allowed, "but I don't know if I can accurately express the situation to you. At least not without making you jump to conclusions before you've heard all the facts." John paused mid sip of his tea, this was very interesting indeed.

"That's never stopped you before. Usually you expect me to jump to conclusions. But, if this is an emotional problem then I think we can both agree I have slightly more experience in the area?" John hoped that Sherlock hadn't been able to tell exactly how disastorous his weekend with Molly had been. Sherlock seemed to be mulling over John's words for a moment,  
"Indeed" he muttered eventually. Suddenly he spun around and jumped into his chair, violin clasped between his knees and his chin resting on it.

"It's a case that I've been following for some times. It came to me not long after you movied in here. I haven't been able to do anything about it because there was never enough evidence to support what I believed to be happening." Sherlock paused, staring at a spot just above John's head. The fact that Sherlock wasn't looking at him told John exactly what the next sentence out of the mans mouth was going to be.

"Until this weekend, while I was gone."

"Preciscely"  
"Why haven't you mentioned it before?"

"Like I said there just wasn't enough evidence. There were very few clear facts and therefore nothing I could work from." Sherlock stood up and went back to the window, beginning to play as he moved. John noticed the subtle difference in the song, it was more hurried, the notes tumbling over one another, as if the emotions and confusion were getting to be too much, racing towards the unwritten conslusion that Sherlock seemed so desperate to find. John knew well enough that asking questions now would get him no answers so he picked up a newspaper and began to read. It was some time later that he realized the music had stopped. He looked up and saw Sherlock was sraing at him from across the room.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes. Fine. I'm going to bed. Goodnight John." The doctor balked, it took a lot to surprise him where Sherlock was concerned but going to bed, at a reasonable hour, of his own accord? Something was definitely going on. As John folded away the newspaper, Sherlock walked towards the door.

"By the way, John, I missed you." Sherlock didn't turn around as he said this, so he missed the dumbfounded look on John's face.

So Sherlock _had_ noticed he'd been gone. Which left John wondering, what exactly had happened in his absence? It must be something big if Serlock was so out of sorts. He'd have to ask Mrs. Hudson tomorrow. John picked up his bag and made his way upstairs. Apparently I lot could change in less than two days.

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**A/N: As always I hope you enjoyed this. I apologize again for any mistakes I've made. Please point them out to me and I will do my best to fix them! Please R&R, it makes it so much more fun to write when I know I have an audience who's enjoying it.**


	4. Sentiment

**A/N By far the longest chapter so far. I don't know what happened, I just kept writing and I couldn't see any way to divide this or change it without losing John's monologue, so I left it. I'm having a little bit of trouble with the next chapter, it just doesn't want to be written the way I want to write it. I really don't want to rush the whole process of John and Sherlock getting together because it just doesn't seem natural to me. There has to be some resistance and soul searching and all that fun stuff, so this fic might work out a little longer than I'd originally planned, but not by much. The next chapter will be more of a Sherlock POV because I think it's time some of his actions were explored and of course there's the question of 'what actually happened while John was gone?'. So look for that next chapter hopefully next Tuesday or Wednesday but I honestly can't guarantee anything. If it's an consolation, I already have the chapter where they finally get together written and I have to admit, I felt rather filthy writing it... Hopefully it'll be worth the wait. Long authors notes are long... I'll just stop now...**

**_John/Molly, John/Sherlock, some OOC NOT BETA'D_**

**I OWN NOTHING**

**_WARNINGS: M/M relationship which will (eventually) be very physical and very descriptive_**

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_Apparently I lot could change in less than two days._

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When John woke the next morning he had a brief moment of respite before the events of the past few days all came flooding back to him. He groaned as he reached into his bedside drawer to retrieve some paracetamol, his hand knocking a couple of condoms, the spare key to Harry's place, a packet of tissues, a few old ticket stubs and his dog-tags out of the way before finding the little packet he was looking for. Without opening his eyes he got two tablets and swallowed them dry. After a few minutes he was feeling slightly better, the initial headache seemed to have passed at least. With a sigh he sat up in the bed, ran his hands over his face and cracked his eyes open slowly. Upon checking his phone he realized he'd slept a lot later than he normally would, his years in Bart's and the army had set his body-clock to wake him at the almost unreasonable hour of 6.30am every morning, it was now nearly 10am.

He glanced over at the night-stand and realized he'd never shut the drawer, he all but glared at the condoms – clearly he wouldn't be needing them any time soon, before his eyes fell on the dog-tags. He'd put them in the drawer the day he moved in to Baker Street but had never touched them. The minute he'd arrived back in London he'd removed them and from that moment he'd never felt any desire to put them back on. True he missed the battlefield, but that didn't mean he missed the air-raids and night-shifts. Life with Sherlock was much more to his liking, loathe as he was to admit it, because while there was still the very real possibility of injury or death there was none of the horrible sand disrupting his vision, and more importantly there were no tents of dying men begging for his attention when there was nothing he could possibly do to help them.

John shook his head, as if trying to shake the thoughts right out of it, as the sound of Sherlock's violin trailed up the stairs reminding John that there were more present things to focus on. He cast his mind back to the previous night and the peculiar way Sherlock had been acting, what (as Mrs. Hudson would say) was going on in that funny, odd head of his? As he listened he realized that the song was the same as last night, but it was different, there were new notes and an underlying melody he couldn't quite catch. The song was morphing into something much more complex, dark yet still hopeful, the notes fell like daggers but were caressed as they dropped. John wasn't a musical man, but he could still hear the pain and confusion in the song, although he could perhaps attribute this to the fact that he knew Sherlock's moods better than he could ever have hoped to when he first moved in. With a groan he got out of the bed, showered and dressed before venturing down the stairs.

Sherlock was dressed in his black suit and purple shirt, a favourite of his, and was standing by the window with the violin tucked under his chin.  
"Morning Sherlock"

"Morning"  
"How are you?"

"Dreadful!" John was only slightly startled by this response and continued on his way to the kitchen.  
"No sign of a case then?" he asked, filling the kettle with water and turning it on.  
"Lestrade sent me a text about some drug-smugglers that have apparently been bringing massive amounts of cannabis into the country. I already looked at the file, it's a four at best." By now the teabags were in the cups, the sugar had been added to Sherlock's and there was bread in the toaster.  
"So where are you going then?"

"Out, I have some business to attend to, there seems to be a small hole in my homeless network and I intend to find out why."  
"Mycroft's doing?" John inquired as the kettle boiled and he filled the cups.  
"Doubtful, he knows about the network but he doesn't have any reason to interfere with it. There just wouldn't be a point." Sherlock placed the violin back on it's stand and sat in his usual seat, fingers steepled under his chin and staring towards the kitchen, in a way that would have been intimidating to anyone who wasn't Dr. John Watson, who entered the sitting room with Sherlock's tea (strong, one sugar, dash of milk) and set it beside him. He returned to the kitchen, navigating the various 'experiments' that littered the table, and buttered his toast and smothering it with jam before picking up his plate and cup and sitting himself in his armchair. He took a bite of toast and a sip of tea (light, no sugar, generous amount of milk) before picking up the newspaper he hadn't read the day before. Sherlock stood up, just as John was preparing to take another bite, and began pacing the room. John rolled his eyes and returned to a news article about an elderly woman who'd won a large sum of money on the lotto at the weekend.

"But iwhy/i?" John will deny to this day that he jumped slightly at Sherlock's little outburst, spilling some tea on his jumper in the process.

"What?"

"Why do people give in to sentiment?" the way he said it could have been a curse, "It's completely pointless and only clouds all other judgement and logic, it's pointless and completely unnecessary to survive. Why do people have to have iemotions/i?" John blinked repeatedly, this wasn't a new topic of conversation but it didn't mean he wasn't caught completely off guard.  
"Why do you ask?" he carefully lowered his cup and wiped the front of his jumper, determined to look anywhere but at Sherlock. The last thing they needed was another 'domestic'.

"It just doesn't make sense, of course the chemical reactions make perfect sense and the fact that as a species human beings are almost as close to being herd animals as a flock of sheep, but why do people give in to it? It would be so much easier to ignore it and just be ilogical/i" Still slightly flabbergasted John took a few seconds to digest what he'd just heard, given the weekend he'd had he couldn't honestly say that he disagreed with Sherlock, life would indeed be a lot easier if people didn't care so much. He thought back to the time Sherlock had been gone, how his world had crumbled around his ears, how nothing seemed to make sense, the nightmares he'd had about ithat/i day, how he'd blamed himself for months for what had happened, the constant pain that returned to his leg and the crushing feeling in his chest that threatened to undo him entirely. Then he thought of Molly and how she had said she loved him, but he couldn't say it back. There was no way he could disagree with Sherlock on this one.

"You're right" he said simple "it doesn't make sense."

"What?" Sherlock spun, mid-step, to face him.

"I said you're right, it-"

"I heard what you said."

"But you asked -"

"Never-mind"

"Okay then. The thing is Sherlock, much as you hate to admit it you've given in to your emotions before."  
"No I haven't!"

"Yes, you have. You convinced the world that you were dead because it was the right thing to do, not that I've forgiven you for it" Sherlock scoffed, he'd saved John's life by jumping off that building, as well as Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, it had been the logical solution to the problem "ibut/i you came back because you missed us and you need us." Sherlock couldn't deny the fact that he needed them, while he'd been gone there had been many nights when he almost gave in and went back to his old habits and a couple of nights when he had. He'd known that coming back to London, to Baker Street was the only way he would be safe, therefore it was still a logical decision and not one he had taken lightly. However he also couldn't deny the fact that he'd missed John, he'd grown accustomed to the steady presence and considering he'd lived most of his life without a companion it was taking more effort than he would have thought to re-adjust to life on his own.

"Be that as it may, there were still logical reasons behind that decision, ones which you are fully aware of. What are the reasons for a man staying with his wife who is clearly unfaithful? Why do children cry when their pets die? Why do men line up to enlist in a war thousands of miles away when they have much better things they could be doing with their time?" Why do people spend months and years mourning family members who die?" It was at this point that John's temper began to rise.

"Maybe because he still loves her in spite of everything? Because they want to be part of something bigger than themselves, they want the opportunity to see the world and help people. Because, maybe just because, they miss them and they're scared because they don't know or understand what happens to someone after they die! And before you say 'nothing' I'd just like to remind you that some people like to hold out a little bit of hope because there is a hell of a lot in this world that we don't understand and probably never will because, Sherlock, not everybody sees the world the way you do!"

"Why did you mourn for me? When you thought I was dead? Why?"

"Sherlock we've been through this! You're my best friend, we work together, we live together. I see you every day and if I don't then I text you every day. You are the reason the nightmares stopped, because of you I lost the limp and the tremor in my hand, I managed to do what a lot of war veterans don't and find my way back into society." John realized he'd stood up as he swallowed the lump in his throat, "I mourned you because when I saw your body hit that pavement suddenly all that progress meant nothing. I blamed myself for not being able to talk you out of it and I hated you for the fact that you did it, but I still missed you because without you here I couldn't get back to normal, I was worse than I was when we first met." he sniffed and looked away from Sherlock, his eyes fixing on the wall over his friends' shoulder.

"Thank you." John didn't trust himself to speak so he just nodded, even though he wasn't sure what he was being thanked for. "You've helped make things a little clearer for me. I have to go."  
John sat back down and dropped his head into his hands. He hadn't expected to get so defensive or emotional, but he supposed it had been a long time coming. He'd punched Sherlock repeatedly when he'd returned, resulting in a trip to the emergency room for both of them, he'd screamed til his throat was raw, he'd thrown things around the apartment and he'd then refused to speak to Sherlock for almost a month before there'd been a case and everything had gone back to pretty much normal. They'd never really talked about it, except for the vulgarities John had spewed in Sherlock's face the night he came back.

Deciding he needed a break John tidied up the dishes, washed and dried them, then got his coat and headed out the door. He didn't know exactly where he was going, he just knew he needed to walk. It was several hours later when it had gotten cold and the sun was setting over London that he finally allowed himself to sit on a bench and just relax. He didn't think about anything in particular, he just sat. Only when it was dark did he rise and turn his feet towards home and his infuriating, brilliant, unbelievable best-friend and house-mate.

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**A/N Well there you have it, chapter 4! Let me know if you love it or hate it, I'm open to all comments and suggestions!**


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